Road to Somewhere
by The Jack of Spades
Summary: Post-game. Irvine's inner struggle, and a willing-to-listen Selphie.


Disclaimer: I don't own anything or anyone from FF8. Not that Square gives a damn if I put this here, but it _is_ the proper thing to do... 

A/N: Probably not original, but what the hey. 

It was picturesque in a lewd sort of way: three o'clock in the morning, sitting on a bench to the far right of the Quad, liquored up to the point of vague, indifferent bliss, with a pretty girl seated on his right. The only thing missing: there was no making out to be had. Hell, there wasn't even any handholding. 

He'd tried to be sympathetic. He didn't think she'd end up so pissed off just because he copped his usual attitude with a few female SeeD cadets at the party. That was his style, even if he was tied down with someone now. Didn't she know he still had a public mask to wear, never mind all those mushy things he'd said to her? And wasn't he still free to admire all the other beautiful girls around him? 

"I could've socked you one," she pouted. He flinched at the remark---he wasn't a touchy kind of guy, not in the violent sense. That was what had drawn him to marksmanship in the first place. Sniping was a distant art, a no-contact method of fighting. 

He tried to be hospitable. "It doesn't _mean_ anything," he slurred. And it didn't. It never really had. 

"But it's still annoying," she countered. She trained her eyes on him then, those gorgeous round green gems. Green, what a rare eye color. Wait, he shouldn't be thinking about that. 

"You don't think I was serious then, do you?" he asked her after a time. Serious about what he had said to her after Ultimecia's spell had been broken, when all of time returned to its normal state, to be specific. The things he'd said to her then were things he hadn't said to any girl ever, and at the time he was very sure he meant them. But then later on he got flighty and doubt set in. What if it was just because the two of them had finally pulled through such a great ordeal? What if it was all just a byproduct of a near-death experience? 

But it couldn't have been, he would reassure himself, because Selphie had said yes and she hadn't given up on him since. If it had been just a brief spurt of passion, a quick rush of emotion, than surely it would have fizzled out in a few hours or at the very most a few days. 

Her answer was as he predicted. "I thought you were. Back then..." She turned away, trailed off, swallowed. Irvine watched her, his eyes for one reason or another fixed on her delicate neck. 

Then the full weight of Selphie's statement sunk in and he sat upright. "Wait, wait---don't mistake me here. I wasn't just talkin' out my neck then when I said---" 

"I didn't say _that_. I just... You know what I really want to know? The one thing I still can't figure out?" 

Irvine looked at her blankly. Curse the wine. Curse his indulgence. He finally uttered a disoriented "what." 

Selphie carried on without a hitch. "Why you do it in the first place. I mean, is it that horrible to be with just one person? Does that bother you that much?" 

No, his mind answered. Settling down wasn't really a problem as far as giving up the ladies went. He could do that very easily. It was himself that he feared above all else. Revealing one's true colors took courage and determination, and while Irvine certainly proved he had the former, the latter was an obvious lack. He was too skittish and he knew it. 

He opened his mouth to say something, but there were too many things to say. It was like someone handing you a box of chocolates and telling you to pick just one. You _couldn't_ pick just one. 

He could start with the self-esteem issue, he rationalized. He didn't have enough of that in reserve. Damn it, no matter what happened or where he was, whenever he was involved in a group he was singled out. Caraway singled him out to bail out Rinoa. Squall even acknowledged at one point that Irvine was always the odd one out, the guy left over. At Galbadia Garden he had often tried to fit in, blend into some social group and be cared about, ever since he was a kid. And it always failed! Every single time... What on earth made him so incompatible with the rest of the universe? Whenever he reached out, the whole world withdrew. 

And now here he was, singled out by Selphie, after having singled _himself_ out for the same girl. He had reached out yet again, tried to connect, tried to get someone to give a damn. Oh, but shit, he made himself look shallow again, all because he donned the mask. But he was so comfortable behind it.... 

"Well?" The verbal prodding. Irvine sat upright, having been unaware that he'd spent the past few moments slouching. His head reeled with liquor. 

He hesitantly decided to go with "You know, I really hate this. Can't begin to say how much." 

It seemed that Selphie retracted, slightly. "Hate what?" 

Irvine made some sort of wild gesture with his left hand. "This...whole thing. I feel like I'm being interrogated. I already told you, it's just something I do...." An act, that was all it was. "It doesn't mean a damned thing. It's just for show." Ah, he just did it---he spilled a little. His eyes widened; he threw a cautious look Selphie's way. _Just for show._ Screw the alcohol, again. 

Selphie's expression softened. That fast, she went from tough cop to concerned lover. The expression suited her well, Irvine thought. Made her look more innocent than she really was. "Define 'just for show'." A request. 

He obliged---mentally at first. Just for show, because it hadn't taken him long to realize that he loved women in general as much as other men loved their lives, their jobs, or just one woman. Not to confuse him with a pervert: he wasn't _in_ love with them; "greatly attracted" fit better. He pegged himself to be about twelve or thirteen when the realization came. It was what separated him from everyone else; it was the dividing line. Guys sought out girls for a whole list of common reasons: for the truelove, real-deal variety, or for sex, or simply for companionship. Or conformity. Irvine sought them out because the mere scent of a woman was more intoxicating than the cheap booze he'd downed hours ago. He hated violent touching, yes, but a touch from the opposite sex had the potential to drive him crazy. He reacted to girls in an instant, a split-second rush he had barely any control over. He was...sensitive. And ashamed of it. 

Sensitivity wasn't quite a welcome quality in a single man amongst other men. This was especially true in an age group that desired above all else to be unnoticed as individuals, to find refuge in similarity. Yet being new to his little discovery at the time, Irvine pursued girls with more intensity than most boys did, to the point of almost exclusively hanging out with them. He wasn't shunning the guys; he was simply doing what moths would do when flame was around. 

It had given rise to a silly rumor back in the old Garden. The g-word had been thrown around quite often when he was fourteen and he still had scars from the whispers. He had shrugged it all off with a shy leer or a poker face or even a grimace and a retreat during the roughest moments, but he didn't hate them, those whisperers. He hated himself for being the way he was. For being different. 

He'd learned to change that in time, to turn the weakness into an advantage. He'd put on the costume of the consummate flirt and pass off his actions as those of a man's man, a red-blooded normal kid just trying to appeal to the girls. That was the method to the mask: to take the proverbial reigns, to make pretend, to make believe that he could control the beast that was his sex drive. Become an actor, play the part of the flirt and show everyone that it was a gift and not a curse. To hell with his failures. But the guise had turned out to be too good, as many people had come to see Irvine as being as shallow as the mask itself. 

Maybe he was a pervert, after all. Everyone was perverted in his or her own way. Maybe this was his version of it, making an ass out of himself for the sake of fitting in. The paradox was the damnable part of it, because it never worked. He was still odd man out. 

He turned to Selphie then and he remembered: she was still expecting an answer. Well, he certainly had one. Still, could he really give her all that? 

She was studying him with a scientific kind of curiosity. Her eyes were beckoning for his response. Selphie was just being Selphie. Yet after a revelation, would Irvine still be Irvine in her eyes? Would Selphie suddenly turn judgmental? Irvine wanted some kind of guarantee as to what her reply would be, but he'd never get one. Again he'd have to take a risk, execute another leap of faith. Reach out and hope there was a hand reaching back---her hand. 

He shifted in discomfort, then inhaled. "It's a long story. Kind of. It's something I never told anyone." And he didn't want to tell it either, not yet, but he hadn't a choice. 

Selphie grew pensive. She lowered her eyes for a moment, then raised them, saying, "Well, you'll have to tell me sooner or later. I should know, shouldn't I?" Oh, those wide, honest eyes. No, she wouldn't judge him. To Selphie, the world seemed to be in black and white: she liked what she liked and disliked what she disliked. Surprises and skeletons in closets couldn't alter her views. If anyone could understand Irvine's reasons, it would be her. Even the liquor couldn't distort that truth. 

She sidled up to him presently, as if her closeness could sponge his secrets out of him. He looked down at her. She was kitten like, eager and yet comfortably quiet, waiting. Moonlight met her hair and made it glow. It was soft and inviting; he reached out to touch it. His fingers quivered. 

Selphie was as still and silent as a statue. He caught her eyes and found forgiveness in them in a form so blatant, he stopped to catch himself. Forgiveness? Did he think that was forgiveness? No, it was more than that. 

His hand met her hair---warm, silky, shiny---and it dawned on him that she understood. And he hadn't even spoken a word of his tale yet. 

His touch was fragile, but he wasn't aware of it until she commented on it. "That feels nice." 

Did it? He smiled at her, then leaned down to kiss the top of her head. 

When he withdrew, her head was angled up, looking him right in the face. "All right, quit stalling and start talking!" 

He chuckled. "Okay, okay." And then the story began. 


End file.
